THE MASTER-GENERAL
In the labyrinth of narrow streets, crooked roads, and blind alleys
behind the Palais de Justice, where the houses are so crowded, that
they seem to climb one over the other in their efforts to reach higher
and higher in their search for air, is a small street called the Rue
des Deux Mondes. It had this advantage--that it was wider than most of
the other roads in that part of Paris, and opened out abruptly on to
the river face, very nearly opposite the upper portion of the Pont
Neuf, then under course of construction but not to be finished for
some years later. At the corner of the street and overlooking the
river, the Pont Neuf, the Passeur aux Vaches, with a glimpse of the
Quai Malaquais and the mansions of the Faubourg St. Germain, was a
house of moderate size kept and owned by a Maitre Pantin, who was
engaged nominally, in some legal business in the courts of the city. I
say nominally, because he was in reality an agent of the Huguenot
party, who, having contributed so largely to help the King to his own,
were in reward restricted from the public exercise of their religion
to a radius of thirty miles beyond Paris. This restriction did not,
however, apply to Madame Catherine, the King's sister, now the Duchess
de Bar, and a few of the great nobles such as Bouillon, de Guiche, de
Pangeas, and one or two others, who had declined to follow the King's
example and see the error of their religious ways, and who when in the
capital were allowed to attend the princess' daily _preche_ in the
Louvre, a thing which exasperated all Paris, and induced Monseigneur
the Archbishop de Gondy to make public protest to the King, and to
come back very downcast with a carrot for his cabbage.
It was this house of Maitre Pantin, it will be remembered, that had
been recommended to me as a lodging by Palin, who told me of the
owner's occupation, and when I demurred on account of my religious
convictions, the Huguenot pointed out that I had to do things in Paris
which required a safe retreat, and that he could vouch for the honesty
and discretion of Pantin. I admitted that his arguments were
reasonable, and resolved to take advantage of his recommendation.
We rode into Paris by the St. Germain's gate, and I was immediately
struck by the aspect of gloom that the city wore. Most of the shops
were indeed open, but there appeared to be no business doing, and
instead of men hurrying backwards and forwards, the streets were
filled with groups of people evidently engaged in discussing some
affair of the utmost moment. Every third or fourth man wore a black
scarf over his right arm, and the bells of the churches were tolling
dismally for the dead. From St. Germain des Pres, from St. Severin,
from the airy spire of Ste. Chapelle, they called out mournfully, and
above them all, drowning the distant voices of St. Germain
l'Auxerrois, St. Jacques de la Boucherie, St. Antoine, and others less
known to fame, pealed out the solemn notes of the Bourdon of Notre
Dame.
Near the Pre-aux-clercs, hundreds of long-robed students were
assembled, and the windows of many of the great houses, including the
Logis de Nevers, were hung with black. It was strange to see Paris,
always so bright and gay, with this solemn air upon it. No notice was
taken of us as we rode on, the knots of people merely moving aside to
let us pass, and answering Jacques' cheerful 'good-day 'with a silent
inclination of the head or a chill indifference.
'_Pardieu_, monsieur,' exclaimed Jacques, as we turned up the Rue de
la Harpe, hard by the Hotel de Cluny, 'one would think the King
himself were dead, these gentry pull such long faces.' My servant's
chance observation sent a sudden shock through me. What if Henry was
dead! What if I had got only one thread of the plot that was weaving
at Anet? I did not answer Jacques; but observing a Capuchin priest
advancing in my direction, I reined in Couronne, and giving him the
day, asked what it was that had befallen the city. He looked up at me
in a slight surprise, and then, observing my travel-stained
appearance, replied:
'I see you are a stranger, sir; but have you not heard the news--it
should have gone far by this?'
'I have not, as you see--but what is it? Surely the King is not dead?'
'God forbid,' he answered, 'no, not the King; but she who in a few
weeks would have been Queen of France.'
'The Duchesse de Beaufort?'
'Exactly.'
'I knew that; but you don't mean to say that the city is in mourning
for the mistress of the King?'
He looked at me straight in the face, and stroked his white beard
thoughtfully. He was a tall, a very tall, thin man, and his eyes, of
the clearest blue, seemed to lighten with a strange light.
'No, my son, not for the mistress of the King, as you call her, but
for the open hand and the generous heart, for the kindly soul that
never turned from suffering or from sorrow, for Magdalen bountiful,
and, let us hope, Magdalen repentant.'
'But----'
'Adieu, my son--think of what I have said. Is your own heart so pure
that you can afford to cast a stone at the dead?' And without waiting
for a further answer he went onwards. I turned and watched the tall,
slim figure as it moved through the crowd, the people making way for
him on every side as if he were a prince of the church.
But though he was slowly passing out of sight, he had left words
behind him that were at their work. This was the woman whom I had
openly-reviled as fallen and beyond the pale--had I any right to cast
stones? For a moment I was lost in myself, when Jacques' voice cut
into my thoughts.
'That must have been a cardinal at least, monsieur, though he does not
look like the Cardinal du Perron, whom we heard preach at Rheims--I
will ask,' and he inquired who the Capuchin was, of a man who had just
come up.
'That is the _pere_ Ange, monsieur,' was the answer, and the man went
on, leaving Jacques' thanks in the air.
The _pere_ Ange. The name brought back a host of recollections to me
as I shook up Couronne's reins and headed her towards the Pont St.
Michel. I saw myself a boy again in the suite of Joyeuse, and
remembered with what awe I used to gaze on the brilliant de Bouchage,
his brother, who was a frequent visitor at Orleans. His splendid
attire, his courtly air, the great deeds he had done were in all men's
mouths. We youngsters, who saw him at a respectful distance, aped the
cut of his cloak, the tilt of his sword, the cock of his plumed hat.
If we only knew how he made love, we would have tried to do so in like
manner; but for this each one of us had to find out a way of his own.
All at once it was rumoured that the chevalier had vanished,
disappeared mysteriously, and that every trace of him was lost. There
were men who whispered of the Chatelet, or, worse still, the Bastille;
others who said the Seine was very deep near the mills by the Pont aux
Meunniers; others who put together the sudden retreat from the court
of the brilliant but infamous Madame de Sauves, the Rose of Guise,
with the disappearance of de Bouchage, and shook their heads and
winked knowingly. They were all wrong. Gradually the truth came out,
and it became known that the polished courtier, the great soldier, and
the splendid cavalier had thrown away the world as one would fling
aside an old cloak, and buried himself in a cloister.
It was a ten days' wonder; then other things happened, and perhaps not
one in ten thousand remembered, in the saintly _pere_ Ange, the once
fiery prince of the house of Joyeuse.
I have mentioned this because of his reproof to me. Day by day my
education was progressing, and I began to recognise that my virtue was
pitiless, that I was too ready to judge harshly of others. _Pere_
Ange's reproof was a lesson I meant to profit by; and now--to the
abode of Maitre Pantin.
Palin's directions were clear, and after crossing the Pont St. Michel,
a wooden bridge, we kept to the south of Ste. Chapelle, and then,
after many a twist and turn, found ourselves in the Rue des Deux
Mondes, before the doors of Pantin's house.
The master himself answered my knock and stood in the doorway, a
small, wizened figure, looking at us cautiously from grey eyes,
shadowed by bushy white brows.
'Good-day, monsieur--what is it I can do for you?'
'You are Maitre Pantin?'
'At your service.'
'And I am the Chevalier d'Auriac. I have come to Paris from Bidache on
business, and need a lodging. Maitre Palin has recommended me to you.'
'Enough, monsieur le chevalier. My friend Palin's name is sufficient,
and I have need of clients, for the house is empty. If Monsieur's
servant will lead the horses through that lane there, he will find an
entrance to the stables--and will Monsieur step in and take a seat
while I summon my wife--Annette! Annette!'
I limped in and sat down, escorted by expressions of compassion from
Pantin, who mingled these with shouts for Annette. In a little time
Madame Pantin appeared, and never have I seen so great a resemblance
between husband and wife as between these two. There was the same
small, shrivelled figure, the same clear-cut features, the same white
eyebrows standing prominently out over the same grey eyes--their
height, walk, and tone of voice even, was almost the same. Madame,
however, had an eye to business, which her husband, although I
understood him to be a notary, had not discovered to me, and whilst he
went off to see, as he said, to the arrangements for the horses,
Madame Annette struck a bargain with me for my lodging, which I closed
with at once, as I was in sufficient funds to be a little extravagant.
This matter being arranged by my instant agreement to her terms, she
showed me to my rooms, which were on the second floor, and commanded a
good view of the river face; and, pocketing a week's rental in
advance, the old lady retired, after recommending me to an ordinary
where the food was excellent and the Frontignac old.
I spent the remainder of the day doing nothing, going forth but to sup
quietly at the Two Ecus, which I found fully upheld the good name
Madame Pantin had given it, and returning early to my rooms.
Sitting in an easy chair at a window overlooking the Seine, I lost
myself for a while in a dreamland of reverie. Let it be remembered
that I was a man of action, who had been awakened by the love he bore
for a woman to a sense of his own unfitness, and it will be realised
how difficult it was for me to look into myself. I tried to tick off
my failings in my mind, and found they were hydra-headed. There were
some that I alone could not combat, and I hated myself for my want of
moral strength. I had groped towards religion for aid, to the faith of
my fathers; but there were doctrines and canons there that I could not
reconcile with my inward conscience. I could not believe all I was
asked to take on trust, and I felt I was insensibly turning towards
the simpler faith of the Huguenot. But here, again, I was in troublous
waters. I had got over the sinful pride that prevented me from
approaching my God in humbleness, but I found that prayer, though it
gave momentary relief, did not give permanent strength to resist, and
a sort of spiritual despair fell upon me. Along with this was an
unalterable longing to be near the woman I loved, to feel her presence
about me, to know that she loved me as I loved her, and, in short, I
would rather go ten times up to a battery of guns than feel over again
the desolation and agony of spirit that was on me then. So I spent an
hour or so in a state of hopeless mental confusion, and at last I cut
it short by pulling myself up abruptly. Win or lose, I would follow
the dictates of my conscience. If I could, I would win the woman I
loved, and with God's help and her aid lead such a life as would bring
us both to Him when we died. It was a quick, unspoken prayer that went
up from me, and it brought back in a moment its comfort.
Jacques' coming into the room at this juncture was a relief. He lit
the tall candles that stood in the grotesque bronze holders that
projected from the wall, and then, drawing the curtains, inquired if I
needed his services further that night.
'I don't think so, Jacques--but stay!'
'Monsieur.'
'How do we stand?'
'Oh, well enough, monsieur. Better really than for a long time. We
have three horses and their equipment--although one of Monsieur's
pistols is broken--and a full hundred and fifty crowns.'
'A perfect fortune--are you sure of the crowns?'
'As I am of being here, monsieur.'
'Well, then, there is something I want you to do, and attend with both
ears.'
'Monsieur.'
'I want you to take the two horses we got at Evreux and fifty crowns,
and go back to Ezy. Keep ten crowns for yourself and give forty to the
smith and his daughter, and take them with you to Auriac. The
forester's lodge is vacant--let them live there, or, if they like,
there is room enough in the chateau. I will give you a letter to
Bozon. He wants help, and these people will be of service to him.
After you have done this, sell one of the horses--you may keep the
proceeds, and come back to me. If I am not here you will get certain
news of me, and can easily find me out--you follow?'
'Exactly.'
'Then when will you be prepared to start?'
'As soon as Monsieur le Chevalier is suited with another man as
faithful as I.'
'Eh!'
'_Sangdieu!_ monsieur, I shall never forget what _pere_ Michel and the
old steward Bozon said when I came home last without you. I believe if
I were to do so again the good cure would excommunicate me, and Maitre
Bozon would have me flung into the bay to follow. If I were to go back
and leave you alone in Paris anything might happen. No! no! My fathers
have served Auriac for two hundred years, and it shall never be
said that Jacques Bisson left the last of the old race to die
alone--never!'
'My friend, you are mad--who the devil talks of dying?'
'Monsieur, I am not such a fool as perhaps I look. Do I not understand
that Monsieur has an affair in hand which has more to do with a rapier
than a ribbon? If not, why the night ride, why the broken pistol, and
the blood-stained saddle of Couronne? If Monsieur had come to Paris in
the ordinary way, we would have been at court, fluttering it as gaily
as the rest, and cocking our bonnets with the best of them--instead of
hiding here like a fox in his lair.'
'You are complimentary; but it is to help me I want you to do this.'
'The best help Monsieur can have is a true sword at his
elbow--Monsieur will excuse me, but I will not go,' and, angry as his
tone was, there were tears in the honest fellow's eyes. Of course I
could have dismissed the man; but I knew him too well not to know that
nothing short of killing him would rid me of him. Again I was more
than touched by his fidelity. Nevertheless, I was determined to carry
out my project of making up to Marie in some way for the death of
Nicholas, and resolved to temporise with Jacques. There was no one
else to send, and it would have to be my stout-hearted knave; but the
business was to get him to go.
'Very well, Jacques; but remember, if I get other temporary help that
you approve of you will have to go.'
'In that case, monsieur, it is different.'
'Then it must be your business to see to this, and now good night.'
'Good night, monsieur,' and he took himself off.
I had made up my mind to lay my information before Sully. That he was
in Paris I knew, having obtained the information from Pantin, and it
was my intention to repair the next day to the Hotel de Bethune, and
tell the minister all. The night was one of those in which sleep would
not come, not because the place was a strange one--I was too old a
campaigner to lose rest because the same feather pillow was not under
my head every night--but because my thoughts kept me awake. What these
were I have already described, and they were in force sufficient to
banish all sleep until the small hours were well on, and I at last
dropped off, with the solemn notes of the Bourdon ringing in my ears.
It was about ten o'clock the next morning that I mounted Couronne,
and, followed by Jacques, well armed, took my way towards the Hotel de
Bethune. We found the Barillierie thronged with people on their way to
St. Denis to witness the burial of Madame de Beaufort, and the Pont au
Change was so crowded that we had to wait there for a full half-hour.
At last we got across the bridge, on which in their eagerness for gain
the money-changers had fixed their stalls, and pushed and struggled
and fought over their business on each side of the narrow track they
left for the public. Finally, we passed the grey walls of the Grand
Chatelet, and turning to our right, past St. Jacques, the Place de
Greve, and the Hotel de Ville, got into the Rue St. Antoine by a side
street that ran from St. Gervais to the Baudets. Here we found the
main street almost deserted, all Paris having crowded to the funeral,
and a quarter-mile or so brought us to the gates of the Hotel de
Bethune.
Sully had just received the Master-Generalship of the Ordnance, and at
his door was a guard of the regiment of La Ferte. I knew the blue
uniforms with the white sashes well, and they had fought like fiends
at Fontaine Francaise and Ham. The officer on guard very civilly told
me that the minister did not receive that day, but on my insisting and
pointing out that my business was of the utmost importance, he gave
way with a shrug of his shoulders. 'Go on, monsieur le chevalier, but
I can tell you it is of no use; however, that is a business you must
settle with Ivoy, the duke's secretary.'
I thanked him, and, dismounting and flinging the reins to Jacques,
passed up the courtyard and up the stone steps to the entrance door.
Here I was met by the same statement, that Sully was unable to receive
to-day; but, on my insisting, the secretary Ivoy appeared and asked me
my name and business.
'I have given my name twice already, monsieur,' I answered. 'I am the
Chevalier d'Auriac, and as for my business it is of vital import, and
is for Monseigneur's ear alone--you will, therefore, excuse me if I
decline to mention it to you.'
Ivoy bowed. 'It will come to me in its own good time, monsieur. Will
you be seated? I will deliver your message to the duke; but I am
afraid it will be of little use.'
'I take the risk. Monsieur d'Ivoy.'
'But not the rating, chevalier,' and the secretary, with a half-smile
on his face, went out and left me to myself. In a few minutes he
returned.
'The duke will see you, monsieur--this way, please.'
'_Pardieu!_' I muttered to myself as I followed Ivoy, 'he keeps as
much state as if he were the chancellor himself. However, I have a
relish for Monseigneur's soup.'
Ivoy led the way up a winding staircase of oak, so old that it was
black as ebony, and polished as glass. At the end of this was a
landing, where a couple of lackeys were lounging on a bench before a
closed door. They sprang up at our approach, and Ivoy tapped gently at
the door.
'Come in,' was the answer, given in a cold voice, and the next moment
we were in the room.
'Monsieur le Chevalier d'Auriac,' and Ivoy had presented me.
Sully inclined his head frigidly to my bow, and then motioned to Ivoy
to retire. When we were alone, he turned to me with a brief 'Well?'
'I have information of the utmost importance which I wish to lay
before you.'
'I hear that ten times a day from people. Will your story take long to
tell?'
'That depends.'
'Then be seated for a moment, whilst I write a note.'
I took the chair he pointed out, and he began to write rapidly. Whilst
he was doing this I had a glance round the room. It was evidently the
duke's working cabinet, and it bore everywhere the marks of the prim
exactness of its master's character. There was no litter of papers on
the table. The huge piles of correspondence on it were arranged
neatly, one file above the other. All the books in the long shelves
that lined the walls were numbered, the curtains were drawn back at
exact angles to the curtain poles, the chairs were set squarely, there
was not a thing out of place, not a speck of dust, not a blot on the
brown leather writing-pad, on the polished walnut of the table before
which Sully sat. On the wall opposite to him was a portrait of Madame
de Sully. It was the only ornament in the room. The portrait itself
showed a sprightly-looking woman with a laughing eye, and she looked
down on her lord and master from the painted canvas with a merry smile
on her slightly parted lips. As for the man himself, he sat squarely
at his desk, writing rapidly with an even motion of his pen. He was
plainly but richly dressed, without arms of any kind. His collar was
ruffed in the English fashion, but worn with a droop, over which his
long beard, now streaked with grey, fell almost to the middle of his
breast. He was bald, and on each side of his high, wrinkled forehead
there was a thin wisp of hair, brushed neatly back. His clear eyes
looked out coldly, but not unkindly, from under the dark, arched
eyebrows, and his short moustaches were carefully trimmed and twisted
into two points that stuck out one on each side of his long straight
nose. The mouth itself was small, and the lips were drawn together
tightly, not, it seemed, naturally, but by a constant habit that had
become second nature. It was as if there were two spirits in this man.
One a genial influence that was held in bonds by the other, a cold,
calculating, intellectual essence. Such was Maximilian de Bethune,
Marquis de Rosny and Duc de Sully. He was not yet nominally chief
minister. But it was well known that he was in the King's inmost
secrets, and that there was no man who held more real power in the
State than the Master-General of the Ordnance. As I finished my survey
of him, he finished his despatch, and after folding and addressing it
he turned it upside down and said to me:
'Now for your important news, monsieur. It must be very important to
have brought _you_ here.'
'I do not understand?'
He looked at me, a keen inquiry in his glance. 'You do not
understand?' he said.
'Indeed, no, monseigneur.'
'Hum! You are either deeper than I take you to be, or a born fool.
Look, you, are you not Alban de Breuil, Sieur d'Auriac, who was lately
in arms in the service of Spain against France as a rebel and a
traitor?'
'I was on the side of the League.'
'Monsieur, the League died at Ivry----'
'But not for us.'
He made an impatient gesture. 'We won't discuss that. Are you not the
man I refer to? Say yes or no.'
'I am d'Auriac--there is no other of my name--but no more a rebel or
traitor than Messieurs de Guise, de Mayenne, and others. The King's
Peace has pardoned us all. Why should I fear to come to you? I have
come to do you a service, or rather the King a service.'
'Thank you. May I ask if you did not receive a warning at La Fere, and
another at Bidache?'
'From M. d'Ayen--yes. Monseigneur, I refuse to believe what I heard.'
'And yet your name heads a list of half a dozen whom the King's Peace
does not touch. One of my reasons for receiving you was to have you
arrested.'
'It is a high honour, all this bother about a poor gentleman of
Normandy, when Guise, de Mayenne, Epernon, and others keep their skins
whole.'
'You have flown your hawk at too high a quarry, monsieur.'
'Then that painted ape, d'Ayen, told a true tale,' I burst out in
uncontrollable anger. 'Monseigneur, do what you will to me. Remember
that you help to the eternal dishonour of the King.'
The words hit him, and the blood flushed darkly under the pale olive
of the man's cheek.
'Monsieur, you forget yourself.'
'It is not I, but you who do so--you who forget that your name is
Bethune. Yes, touch that bell. I make no resistance. I presume it will
be the Chatelet?'
His hand, half stretched towards the button of the call-bell before
him, suddenly stayed itself.
'Were my temper as hasty as your tongue, monsieur, it would have been
the Chatelet in half an hour.'
'Better that----' I began, but he interrupted me with a quick wave of
his hand.
'Monsieur d'Auriac, a time will come when you will have reason to
regret the words you have used towards me. I do not mean regret them
in the place you have mentioned, but in your heart. In this business
the honour of Bethune as well as the honour of the King is at stake.
Do you think I am likely to throw my hazard like an infant?'
I was silent, but a dim ray of hope flickered up in my heart as I
looked at the man before me, and felt, I know not why, in the glance
of his eye, in the tone of the voice, in his very gestures, that here
was one who had conquered himself, and who knew how to rule.
'Now, sir,' he went on, the animation in his tone dropping to a cold
and frigid note, 'proceed with your tale.'
It was a thing easier ordered than done, but I managed it somehow,
trying to be as brief as possible, without missing a point. Sully
listened without a movement of his stern features, only his eyes
seemed to harden like crystal as I spoke of Biron and Zamet. When I
told what I heard of the death of Madame de Beaufort, he turned his
head to the open window and kept it thus until I ended. When he looked
back again at me, however, there was not a trace of emotion in his
features, and his voice was as cold and measured as ever as he asked:
'And your reward for this news, chevalier?'
'Is not to be measured in pistoles, monseigneur.'
'I see; and is this all?'
His tone chilled me. 'It is all--no,' and with a sudden thought, 'give
me twenty men, and in a week I put the traitors in your hands.'
He fairly laughed out. '_Corb[oe]uf!_ Monsieur le chevalier, do you
want to set France ablaze?'
'It seems, monseigneur, that the torch is held at Anet,' I answered a
little sulkily.
'But not lighted yet; leave the dealing with that to me. And,
monsieur, the King is at Fontainebleau, and for a month nothing can be
done. And see here, monsieur, I can do nothing for you; you follow. At
the end of a month go and see the King. Tell him your story, and, if
he believes you, claim your reward. I will go so far as to promise
that you will be received.'
All the little hope I had begun to gather fluttered away at these
words like a scrap of paper cast in the wind. 'Monseigneur,' I said,
and my voice sounded strangely even to my own ears, 'in a month it
will be too late.'
'Leave that to me,' he answered. 'I have a reminder always before my
eyes,' and he pointed through the open window in the direction of a
house that towered above the others surrounding it.
'I do not follow,' I stammered.
'That is the Hotel de Zamet,' he said grimly, and I thought I
understood why he had turned to the window when I spoke of Madame de
Beaufort's death.
I rose with a sigh I could barely repress: 'Then there is nothing for
me to do but to wait?'
'You will not lose by doing so.'
'I thank you, monseigneur; but there is one little favour I ask.'
'And that is?'
'The King's Peace until I see the King.'
'You will be safer in the Chatelet, I assure you, but as you
wish--stay, there is one thing. Not a word of your interview with me,
even to the King.'
My hopes rose again. 'On my faith as a gentleman, I will not mention
it.'
As I finished he struck his bell sharply twice, and Ivoy entered.
'Ivoy, do me the favour to conduct Monsieur d'Auriac to the gates
yourself, and impress upon him the necessity of keeping to his
lodging. The air of Paris out-of-doors is unhealthy at present.
Good-day, monsieur.'
Ivoy bowed, with a slight upraising of his eyebrows, and we passed
out. Going down the stairway, he said to me with a smile: 'I see you
dine at home to-day, chevalier.'
'At the Two Ecus,' I answered, pretending not to understand his
allusion, and he chuckled low to himself. At the gates I observed that
the guards were doubled, and a whispered word passed between Ivoy and
the officer in command. But of this also I took no notice, and,
wishing them the day, rode back as I came.